Love Letters from a Duke E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 82

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

There comes a time in every man's life when he must do the unthinkable—write love letters The Duke of Richland must find a duchess. One of the young ladies attending his house party should suffice. But he's drawn to his widowed neighbor, Mrs. Chatham, an older woman who laughs too much, smiles too often, and smells too good. After they share a devastating kiss, the widow flees. Now, the duke has but one way to win her heart—show his love with pen and paper. ***Love Letters from a Duke was originally published as part of the anthology Dukes by the Dozen***

Leseprobe

Love Letters from a Duke. Copyright © 2020 by Gina Conkle. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Ebook ISBN: 9781641971775

Cover credit – Forever After Romance Designs

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

More Books by Gina Conkle

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

May, 1788

England’s best and brightest young ladies flittered about his lawn, each one as colorful as macaroons of mint green, pale orange, and fragile pink. Sun drenched their stiffly curled hair. Meringue-white smiles dazzled the eye, a delectable assembly. The women preened and played (croquet as it were). One click of mallet to ball, and mind-numbing giggles floated across his lawn. The match’s tempo had been the same since luncheon ended. A man could set his pocket watch by it.

A contretemps by the refreshment table highlighted the stakes. Another game of greater consequence was afoot—the competition for Richland Hall’s next duchess.

“Our mother’s trimming the ranks. Those who don’t pass muster will be dismissed.” His brother chuckled at the flouncing skirts of one perturbed miss. “No biscuits for you, young lady.”

“You’ve used military metaphors all day,” the duke said. “Do you see our ancestral home as a battlefield?”

George grinned. “With our mother hunting for your duchess, I expect a skirmish or two. She has exacting standards, and the competition is fierce.”

His duchess. A wife. He ran a finger between his neck and starched cravat. The mantle of ducal authority sat squarely on his shoulders, but the fit wasn’t quite right, and George knew it. It was why his ginger-haired brother kept vigil with him under the cover of a gnarled oak tree. Both understood a deeper truth was at play—restoring Richland after devastating losses. Their mother wanted laughter ringing in the halls again, and the tapestries bulging with gleeful children hiding behind the antiquated weaves. She needed this next, inevitable step to heal. They all did.

George should’ve had his place in the birth order, but nature was a fickle mistress. She’d cast his younger brother as the family’s impeccable dresser with an ability to navigate social events with ease. At this very moment, a breeze toyed with the ribbon securing George’s queue, yet not a hair was out of place. If it ever was. The same couldn’t be said of him. A few strands escaped their mooring, sausage curls above his ear itched from heavy pomade, and new shoes pinched his toes.

“It’s all about finding a diamond in the rough,” George said between sips of tea.

They winced at Miss Pettyfer’s exuberant upward swipe, which nearly toppled a baroness and her daughter. Hips shifting, Miss Pettyfer had the look of a cat about to pounce on its prey. She was sharp-eyed, taking aim before swinging her mallet with indelicate fervor. Whack! A yellow ball blasted across the green.

“Is that your gentleman’s way of saying they’re all too young?” He eyed the south lawn where his brothers, Ethan and Edward, played a rousing game of cricket.

“I’m not sure of our mother’s strategy.” His perplexed brother shook his head. “Or why she chose such a…youthful array of guests.”

“Every eligible lady here could have been nursery playmates to the twins. Makes me feel ancient.”

Handsome and ruddy, Ethan and Edward were the toast of Eton. Smart, well-mannered, and charming to boot, they seized every morsel of joy to be had in their late May half-term. He grinned at their zeal. The mayhem was good. Richland had been a tomb with the exception of one woman who swanned about on a steady basis—Mrs. Chatham, their neighbor and his mother’s friend.

She was older than him, a widow solidly above thirty years. With a smile too bright, her manner too friendly, and laugh too loud, she was a shade out of touch with proper decorum. Probably from her long rustication in Kent. Other ladies sat ramrod straight in Hepplewhite chairs under the fluttering canopy. Not Mrs. Chatham. Her spine had bumped the back of her chair several times this morning.

Yet, she was a tempting piece.

He’d collected brief junctures with the widow since her arrival in Kent two years past. He’d savored them like a miser: the sight of her unshod foot tucked under her bottom when idling in the salon, an afternoon consoling his mother with a basket of kittens, and then there was the day she brought an armful of hydrangeas to Richland House. His mother’s smile had shined brighter than the sun from that simple, touching gift.

Mrs. Chatham’s passion for gardening was legendary. It seemed to fill her days, but he couldn’t say how she filled her nights.

Everyone knew attractive widows gadded about.

And glory in her independence, she did…like two of her honey-colored locks which had tumbled free of their pins. The effect was too messy to be artful wisps. One curled tip teetered precariously over her velvet-clad bosom.

His fist pressed into the small of his back.

What would it feel like to run my fingers through her hair?

Excitement unspooled inside him. Touching the widow’s hair was out of the question, but he was on the brink of stepping off a dangerous cliff. Twice today, her dark-eyed stare collided with his, stealing his breath. These episodes were increasing. More furtive glances. More ambles near the widow for the thrill of hearing her amiable voice.

This had to stop.

She was a comfortable distance away under the canopy, a breeze sending her serviette tumbling down her burgundy skirt. She tipped forward to retrieve it, giving him a sublime view of delicate breasts, sugar-white, and of tempting size. They were perfect.

“Smile at them, Richland,” George coaxed.

At Mrs. Chatham’s breasts? “That’s beyond the pale,” he sputtered.

“Why? You will dance with them tonight.”

He shut his one good eye. “You mean the young ladies in attendance.”

“Of course, I mean the young ladies in attendance.” George turned to him with an I know this is unpleasant, but it is your duty gaze.

His brother couldn’t hear his lustful musings, nor thankfully had George noticed him ogling Mrs. Chatham, the advantage of a piratical eye patch. He was rusty in the art of wooing, with flirtation in general. Until the ducal title landed on his head, he’d spent his days designing follies for country homes.

He tried smiling, but searing pain lanced his leg, a residual effect of the cataclysmic carriage accident that had taken his father, his brother the heir, and the vision in his left eye.

George choked on his tea. “Not that! You’re snarling at them.”

“That bad?” Air hissing between clenched teeth, he rubbed his hip. His leg locked again. The familiar ache started at his knee and flared like molten nails hammering his thigh.

His mother caught his grimace from her seat under the red-striped canopy. A delicate frown marred her features. She held up an elegant finger, pausing polite conversation with Lady Malmsey and the Countess of Kendal. The supremacy of that single gesture. Carriages braked hard for it, and servants snapped to attention. Given time, his mother would take a turn at stopping the sun, such was her power. Concern in her eyes, she rose from her chair and headed his way.

“Leg acting up, is it?” George asked.

“It will improve.” Someday. This was what the family physician had promised and the myriad of well-meaning physics who’d traipsed through Richland Hall. “But tonight, of all nights,” he managed to say between gritted teeth.

George’s merry blue eyes softened. “Our mother will fret.”

“I know.”

Her worry was the millstone about their necks. This house party was Richland’s reawakening from a long, dark year of solace. The family wanted this for their loving matriarch. Last year had shredded them all, but their mother’s hurt was most profound. Seeing her wracked with sobs followed by weeks of disturbing, empty-eyed silence had frightened them.

He would do anything, anything to ensure she lived the rest of her days in happiness.

“Prepare yourself. Our mother is bringing reinforcements.” George clicked his heels and called out a cheery, “Mother. Mrs. Chatham. Come to check on us?”

The duke froze his massaging hand. His pain was replaced by another agony—the swish of velvet skirts and familiar orange and ginger perfume. Desire had a rhythm, and he found it in the cadence of the widow’s walk.

Unrestrained womanliness. A certain…knowing.

Primal instincts flared when Mrs. Chatham drew near. His skin tightened. Muscles clenched. His pulse jumped with excitement. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why she appealed above all others. The pert smile on her wide mouth? Sparkling sherry-brown eyes? A natural sensuality?

She dropped a curtsey, her eyebrows pressing a worried line. “Your Grace. Lord George.”

“Mrs. Chatham,” they said in unison.

His heart ticked faster. Did the sun shine brighter with her in his vicinity? He must’ve stared a fraction too long because the widow coughed delicately and directed her attention to his mother.

The grand dame swept forward and touched his elbow. “Your leg pains you.”

“It will pass.”

A motherly sigh and, “I am sure it will, but we must consider tonight’s ball.”

He covered her hand with his and gave an affectionate squeeze. “Worried I won’t be in top form?”

“You will have to drag him away,” his brother teased. “It’s all he can talk about.”

His mother’s mild laugh jiggled ruby earbobs. “Do not be impertinent. I know each of my sons all too well.”